Redemption
by lykieu
Summary: Yang loses her memories, finds herself wandering through a wasteland, alone, forgotten. Blake will go to the ends of the earth to bring Yang home. AU. F/F


Snow falls and floats, swirling about her frame, sticks to her hair and clothes, weightless. It's pretty but it's so damn cold. Yang brushes the icy flakes away and wonders when she stopped caring for something that used to bring her such joy. She thinks she can pinpoint the time and a sad frown settles on her brow, settles like the snow on her outstretched hand, like the winter in her bones.

The brisk pace helps keep her mind on track, her boots crunching and kicking across muddied stone, worn smooth with the dragging weight of time. Her breath is foggy in the frigid air, grey sky hanging heavy above, looming like a misty sheet ready to suffocate them all.

Yang thinks that with the luck she's had, such an end wouldn't surprise her in the slightest.

The path is slippery, lending no comfort to her wary state, body tensing with every alley passed, every corner rounded. Still, she weaves through the darkening streets with the ease of someone who has planned their escape, someone who knows they're being watched and followed (oh, she can't shake the eyes, the paranoia, they're getting close—).

Feral dogs and people alike stalk from the shadows, bones protruding from their sides, hair matted and sparse. Dilapidated buildings creak and groan in the wind. Out here in the wastelands, people are cautious; hoods stay up and interactions are hasty. Too much attention is bad. Yang has learned it all the hard way in this rundown town where the people can be as harsh as the environment that surround them. She knows it's nothing personal, purely a means of survival. But it doesn't ease her disquiet, the feeling that she is an outsider, that this will never be home.

She thinks she almost makes it.

"Well, well, well. The Golden One. I'll be honest, I wasn't expecting some kid."

Yang almost slips on the ice in her abrupt halt, cursing under her breath. She glares at the figure emerging from a hidden alleyway, his knuckles cracking, muscles coiled in eagerness. The scars on his arms carve a path to his neck where she spies a silver chain. She knows exactly what will be attached to it, a token of his allegiance: bounty hunter.

They've found her again.

To her credit, Yang remains impassive, sliding her hand into her jacket pocket to clutch at the stolen gun hidden in its depths. She can barely make out the grooves and textures of the weapon, fingers numb and shaking with something more than cold.

"Don't make this difficult," he drawls, hand beckoning her closer like she's wasting his time.

"Don't make me hurt you," Yang retorts, tendrils of red already creeping over her vision, flickering at the edges.

But he laughs, a cruel barking sound. "Listen, bitch—"

She aims her gun in a heartbeat. A flash of surprise crosses his face before the curve of his mouth turns sour. The dark gleam of his Semblance stirs beneath his skin.

"I'm going to count to three," she says, smirking, hoping to compensate with arrogance. "Better start running."

"Fuck you—"

"One."

Yang remains firm, hands steady despite the roaring of her pulse. It's fight or flight and she's at breaking point, cornered and vulnerable. She feels familiar curls of heat lick at her face, knows her hair is ready to ignite, red eyes foreshadowing his ruin. She doesn't need to speak to convey the message: back off.

The man looks like he wants to call her bluff but the consequences of being wrong now are dire. He fumes and clenches his jaw, his plans ruined (barely a good plan, barely a _plan_, but he hadn't thought this far ahead, clearly). Perhaps he thought she'd be an easy target, worn from weeks of running, hiding, searching, desperate enough to fold, cave for answers.

Oh, how close he is to the truth.

Then again, maybe he's just stupid.

"Two."

His hand twitches towards his jacket but Yang is faster. She trains her gun to his face, ready to pull the trigger when a streetlight above them flickers, blows out, and plunges a portion of the road into darkness.

Well, Yang thinks, that's a bad omen anywhere.

And it is.

For a split second, their eyes meet in uncertainty. The tremor up Yang's spine is their first warning sign. Suddenly, the ground fractures with a deafening crack, collapsing beneath their feet. For a moment, Yang is convinced that he's unleashed some sort of power upon her, an ambush, a trap. But she sees him stumble, sees his confusion, and she knows it has become a different fight entirely.

_Grimm_ lunge from the fissures, spewing forth in a wave of tar and grime. Yang loses sight of him, loses sight of everything beyond the periphery of her vision. She can't see, can't breathe, can't move for the earth dropping beneath her feet. The monsters charge and Yang freezes, cold with dread, numb with despair.

But their teeth never reach her, never sink into flesh.

A bullet strikes one squarely, ripping off its muzzle, splattering her stunned face with gore. The warm taste on her lips has her recoiling so sharply she almost loses balance. She staggers across rubble and wreckage, a coughing, bewildered mess. More bullets fly past her, tearing through the chest of another Grimm.

Dazed, Yang whirls around, realising too late that she has come face to face with a masked woman, silent and staring, shrouded in shadow.

Time falters across the next moment, an endless, breathless rift, where Yang knows nothing more than molten amber eyes, lancing through her core.

They sway silently atop ashen ruins, buffeted by the bitter wind, fixed by the other's gaze. Yang only wonders if she has ever seen anyone look so profoundly _sad_.

The stranger tears her gaze away, regaining her composure. She bounds forward, shooting and scattering the approaching Grimm. She's impossibly fast, raven hair whipping about in her dance of death, so graceful, so entrancing that Yang momentarily forgets herself, forgets to breathe as her enemies turn to dust before her eyes.

Just like that, it's over.

A gunblade the colour of obsidian twirls once, twice, in her saviour's hand before it's deftly sheathed against her back. She stands over the smoking street, a lone figure under a broken moon and somehow Yang is reminded of vast stormy seas, slow starless nights, untold, empty.

When she turns to face Yang, her body is strangely rigid, of sharp lines and trembling lungs. Yang is simply speechless. The woman takes a step forward and something inside Yang finally clicks, dragging her back to reality as she backpedals in alarm, gun raised.

"Wait," the stranger says gently. She unties her mask, letting it slide off her face. "I'm not your enemy."

No, Yang thinks, don't fall for it, don't—

She hopes the stutter of her heart has something to do with adrenaline, fear, anything but the sheer beauty of the woman before her (no, she knows it does not and the distance between them closes one more step).

Yang thinks of tides drawing, of inevitable endings.

Vague recognition settles over her mind, like smoke she fails to clear, wisps of memory dispersing as soon as she tries to reach for them, deliberate and mocking.

She wants to yell, to cry in frustration – to _remember._

"Who are you?" she says instead, though it sounds hollow, echoing inside her skull.

There it is again: the fall of the woman's expression that reveals the weight of an ocean on her shoulders, crushing, drowning. She answers too quietly, too calmly, like anything more would be torture.

"Blake. Blake Belladonna."

She doesn't blink, doesn't breathe, every sense fixed on Yang as if gauging her reaction. Time halts and the air stills in her lungs, anticipation warping perception, renders Blake silent as desperate hope flickers in waning gold.

Yang doesn't understand why she looks like the outcome could kill her.

"I'm Yang. Have we met before?"

It's the wrong answer – they both know this.

Blake draws a quiet, aching breath, eyes flickering shut.

"Yes… once before," she murmurs after some time, barely containing the quiver in her voice. "How did you end up here?"

Yang doesn't understand any of it, thinks she's somehow further from her goal than ever before, when a memory sears across her vision and her hand flies to touch the site of pain, a habit, a reminder.

Her vision fades and she sees the same streak of _red_ before it's gone again.

Blake seems to struggle with herself, torn between rushing forward and keeping still. She closes the distance anyway, yet her hands remain clenched at her sides as if reaching out would be too much, too soon—

It is, because Yang recoils from her approach.

"Are you here to capture me?" Yang says, recovering, voice strained, tremors now running down her right arm.

Blake flinches at the defeat in her tone, the heavy slump of her posture. It's not right. It's not Yang.

"No. No. Never," Blake says, taking a step forward unconsciously, as if urging Yang to search her for the truth somehow.

"Who are you?" There's a pleading in Yang's eyes that cuts deep. "Do you know me? Please…"

Hesitation fills Blake's answer. She doesn't know where to start, what to say, how to feel.

Yang sees it then, a fleeting glimpse: the loss, the grief, hears anguished screams that freeze her blood, so immense is the sorrow in Blake's eyes, windows to her soul laid bare.

Blake inhales sharply. "I've come to—"

But the blast of a gunshot shatters the air, silencing everything. Yang feels the weight of Blake's body stagger into her, holds her reflexively, sees red blossom across her back like spilt wine—

"Fuckin' faunus freak." A familiar figure emerges from the hazy street, gun raised, nasty smirk on his face that's now covered in soot and grime. "No loss. So, it's just you and me, Goldie. C'mon now."

There's no warning this time, no preamble. Yang's eyes flash with the red of hell, of blood and bone and blistering heat. The snow surrounding them melts as her hair ignites, cascading like lava down her back. She feels her body overtake her mind, blood roaring in her ears. The urge to sink her fist into his face is almost overwhelming. But she doesn't get the chance to as Blake shoves them both into the nearest alleyway. Just in time before his bullets rain down.

"That fucking bastard!" Yang growls, twisting in Blake's hold, trying to pull free until she realises – they're trapped. It's a dead end.

And Blake is hurt.

Yang knows she needs to calm down, to think, to form an escape plan, but the red of her vision won't fade. Blake half slumps against the closest brick wall, her pallor betraying her composure as she reloads her gunblade with unnerving precision. Bullets continue to rain against them, glowing missiles that burst on impact, perhaps amplified by his Semblance, Yang can't be sure.

"We need to—"

"Stay here."

Yang doesn't get a single second to process the order before Blake leaps out into the open. She seemingly flies at the bounty hunter, dodging and weaving with chilling ease, shadows of her form bounding faster still until Yang can no longer tell which echo of her image is real.

His broken gun clatters across the way, his expression frozen in disbelief, body lifeless before it even hits the ground.

There's silence as Blake turns to face her, expression unreadable, enveloped in the depths of her billowing cloak. They lock eyes for the longest time before Yang realises the snow at Blake's feet has begun to stain red.

"You're..."

Nothing ever quite prepares her for the fall, not even the sight of Yang skidding to her side, strong arms outstretched.

Blake only offers a slow, rueful smile before darkness takes her.


End file.
